


Return of the Nac (Mac Feegle)

by Santillatron



Series: Pictsies Galore [2]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Drunk Shenanigans, Flaming swords, Humour, Mischief, terrible Scottish accents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22253812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santillatron/pseuds/Santillatron
Summary: The Wee Free Men have come back to take Crowley up on his offer, but Michael is still sniffing around, intending to Sort This Out.No Feegle has ever backed down from a challenge, and they're not about to start now.
Series: Pictsies Galore [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1601926
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Return of the Nac (Mac Feegle)

Heaven always had the smartest technology. They had instant access to anything humans came up with, unlimited resources, and Leonardo Da Vinci. So when Michael returned from Hell with the rubber duck they instantly summoned the Evolution Division. They normally documented and catalogued new creatures on Earth, but they had a specific set of equipment that would be just the thing Michael needed right now. 

“Archangel Michael, how may we be of assistance? Where would you like us to go?” The eager young angel asked. 

“Here. Scan my desk. Work out what was here.” They told the angel. “Get a lock on the organism and scan Earth for it. Have the scan results sent to my device and my device only. Understood?”

“Thy will be done Archangel”

And so they set to work. Michael had a feeling that what had been in their office with was something new, and the nerds in Evo would be just the ones to find it. 

About an hour later their device chimed as the scan results came in. 

The organism was humanoid, but didn’t seem to have any relations on Earth. It did bear a resemblance to something from the archives, a draft from when they were first designing the creatures that would walk the Earth, but that should never have got out. It was deemed too dangerous to be allowed on Earth and the project was scrapped. Michael tapped the button to set the scan in motion. 

Two hours later, and nothing had been found. Michael frowned, and concluded it must have been a miracle at play. They decided to waste no more time on the endeavour. 

However, the scan carried on in the background. Which is why, around a month later, when their phone pinged a notification, they broke the pen they were holding clean in two and left for Earth immediately, leaving only a hastily scribbled note for Gabriel covered in ink blots. 

* * *

Aziraphale and Crowley had been spending more time together since the world got its encore. Crowley would inevitably get bored and migrate to the bookshop in search of company and distraction. But not today. The Angel had shooed him out yesterday with strict instructions to stay out of the way today as he had a book deal to complete and didn’t want any distractions of his own. So Crowley was at his flat, tending his plants. In his own way. He gave them everything they could ever need, but he was ruthless when one of them failed him. They had it coming, really, there was no excuse. So when he heard rustling that was incongruous with their usual leafy trembling he immediately spun around, snarling at the thought of an intrusion being allowed in this sacred space. 

“Oh aye snakey boy, verrrrr’ scary.” Came the response as several Pictsies appeared from the foliage surrounding him with a chuckle. “Daft Wullie I told ye that plant were too wee to hide yez, but nae, ye’ll nae take ma word for it.” One said with a shake of his head. 

Crowley’s snarl immediately turned into a grin. Now this was shaping up to be a better day than he had thought. He straightened up again and waved his hand over himself with a flourish, reinstating the kilt. 

“Now, there wa’ talk o’ opportunities here, and we’re no’ the kind tae pass up an off’rin like tha!” The Picstie leader said

“Well then... gentlemen,” Crowley snapped an arm out and his sunglasses appeared in his hand. He slid them onto his face in one smooth movement. “Your chariot awaits!” He swung his arms towards the door with a mock bow and a smirk, and turned to lead the way. He paused at the front door. 

“I hope you lads like Whisky...”

* * *

It was a short whizz in the Bentley over to Shoreditch, to the Black Rock bar. It had been one of Crowley’s favourites for causing trouble, and he knew they had an extensive Whisky selection. He ushered the tiny bandits over to the end of the bar table, and settled a quick miracle over their area so that they wouldn’t be noticed. The Nac Mac Feegle stared in uncharacteristically silent wonder. One of them was crying. 

“There’s a river... o’ whisky...” another whispered hoarsely, but being a pictsie it was a whisper that could be heard clearly over the background music. 

And indeed there was. The long table, which was really half a tree trunk cut lengthways, had two channels cut into it and under a glass top there indeed flowed two rivers of what looked very much like Whisky. 

The barkeep approached. She didn’t normally offer table service but for some reason here she was. 

“A bottle- yes alright, three bottles of... what flavour? Sheep? Really? Ok...” he seemed to be talking to the thin air around him. The barkeep would normally refuse service when this happened, but there was none of the usual slurring or swaying, and three expensive bottles could really help their numbers...

“Right, yes, something... sheepy. Something to put hair on our-my chest. Huh? Oh yeah, and the smallest glasses you have.” It was an odd flavour request but, she thought as she smiled, I think I know just the one. She returned with three bottles of amber liquid, placing them very carefully down in front of the strange figure all in black. He handed over a credit card with a grin, and she took it back to the bar, returning with a tray of shot glasses. 

Once she was gone, Crowley scowled at one of the glasses until it re-evaluated itself and decided that right now, what it needed to be was a crystal tumbler with a snake etched around the base.Crowley glanced down the long table and saw two men fumbling with their own glasses. Crowley had been particularly smug with the design of those. Shaped bases so they never sat flat. Supposed to swirl the drink, in fact they were utterly pointless other than to frustrate and annoy, even more so the more the user had had to drink. Crowley had spent many an amused hour watching people try to use them, thinking they were being sophisticated. 

Crowley lined up the shot glasses and pulled the top off the first bottle. The cork came out with a satisfying 'plunk'. As one, the Nac Mac Feegle sighed happily. He carefully poured a tiny amount into each glass (miraculously there were enough for one for each Feegle, otherwise the fighting stage would have made an early appearance) and watched as the tiny men stepped forward reverently. 

“‘‘Tis the good stuff lads,” said the one that Crowley had mentally labelled chief. “Mind how you go. Yan! Tan! TETHERA!” And with that they all picked up a glass that was half the size of their body as if it were made of air, lifted them up to their lips and quaffed the whole lot. Crowley elected to sip his, relishing the burn as he swallowed while he refilled the small glasses again and again. It did, indeed, remind him faintly of sheep. Just as he was musing on the surprisingly pleasing dichotomy of fiery whisky and smooth lanolin, there was a chiming sound and suddenly the seat opposite was occupied. 

By a figure all in whites and beige. 

“Michael.” Crowley growled. “Thought you lot were going to leave us alone. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Crowley was frantically trying to think of an escape plan. He knew the Pictsies were tough, but even they would be no match for an angry Archangel with a background in warfare. 

Michael looked at Crowley and his little rag-tag band with open disdain. 

“What,” they said, “are they.” Michael gestured at the Wee Free Men.

"Drunk." Said Crowley

“NAC. MAC. FEEGLE!” The little blue men roared. 

“Nae King! Nae Quin! Nae laird! Nae master! We willnae be fooled again!” 

Michael’s sneer grew as they turned their look of disappointment to Crowley, who briefly realised some of what Aziraphale had been facing all these aeons. 

“Whaddya want Michael?” Crowley slurred. He didn’t need to, but it didn’t harm to let your opponent underestimate you. 

“I’ve come to remove the... ‘Nac Mac Feegle’. They don’t belong here. I’m going to take them back to where they do belong.”

“This old ha' again?!” The leader demanded. “Tha’ sounds suspiciously like a challenge tae me lads! Whaddye think?”

“Aye!” Came a merciless chorus. 

“Right. In tha’ case, as the challlenged party we get tae choose th’ manner in which we will enact ye challenge!”

"What?" Said Michael, momentarily thrown by their response. 

“Who says that?” Asked Crowley, bewildered. 

“Th’toad.” Came the response, as if this was obvious and cleared the matter up entirely. He turned back to Michael. 

“Our task shall be... a drinking challenge!” A chorus of cheers erupted that, even with the miracle shielding them, caused a few heads to glance in their direction before glazing over and turning back again. 

“A... what?” Michael asked, looking confused. 

Crowley leapt in before the Pictsies could. “A drinking challenge. You match their champion drink for drink. First one to leave the table loses and backs down. All you have to do see who can drink the most of this.” He gestured at the whisky bottle, knowing full well that Michael had no idea what alcohol was, let alone any tolerance to it. 

“You mean... sully my body with... gross matter?” They shuddered. “I think not.”

“Hear tha’ lads? A forfeit!” They started swarming towards the Archangel with such determined expressions that Michael leant back, eyes wise with alarm. Heaven did not provide any training for this. 

“Ok! Ok! I just have to drink... that?” They gestured at the bottle. 

“Yup.” Said Crowley, with a satisfied pop. “And no purging until the challenge is satisfied.” He waggled a finger at them. 

Michael reached to one side and was suddenly holding a simple clay cup. They smirked at the shocked expression on Crowley’s face. 

“Is... is that? What I think it is?” He stammered. 

“Yep.” They said, popping the p in turn. “One of them anyway.” They pushed the unassuming cup towards Crowley with an expression of studied nonchalance. 

"Oh no you don't Michael. Those turn anything put in them into Holy Water, and that is more definitely cheating. Usually I'm all for that sort of behaviour, but I can make an exception for you. Proper glass please." Crowley said sternly, to hide the tremor in his voice at the thought of a whole cup of the holy stuff in the hands of an Archangel known for vengeance. The last thing Crowley needed was for Michael to even suspect he might actually be vulnerable to it. 

Michael scowled slightly and waved a hand irritably. The cup became a tumbler cut from the purest crystal, so fine it was almost invisible but for an impossibly fine etching of an angel in battle armour driving a sword into a great winged beast. 

Meanwhile the Nac Mac Feegle had been busy debating who was going to be their champion, while one was off to one side puffing furiously into a small bag with pipes sticking out all over it. Crowley looked at it curiously. 

“Are those... ears?!” He asked, looking at what he was pretty sure were mouse ears. All of a sudden the Feegle holding the contraption shoved the bag under one arm, gripped a pipe and started to blow with intent. Michael’s eye twitched as they turned to the figure in horror. 

“WHAT is that NOISE?!” They hissed.

“Noise?” Said Crowley, “what noise?”

“Tis th’ mouse pipes!” A Feegle proclaimed proudly as other patrons of the bar were starting to prod their ears, looking around in confusion. “Nae Feegle can go into battle wi’out ‘em!” 

Eventually the player of the mousepipes came to the end of the apparently rousing tune, as Crowley just shrugged, and the Feegle champion strode forward. He was slightly larger that the other Feegles, and looked a bit younger. A glass was set down in front of him. Crowley smirked and filled both glasses with a measure of whisky. The other Feegles all cried out as he was about to put the cork back in, and with one eyebrow raised he filled their glasses too. 

The two competitors raised their drinks. Glass clinked against crystal, the Feegle announcing "Slàinte" and the archangel proclaiming “Health indeed”, and they both knocked them back. Michael only paused slightly, which Crowley noticed as he watched them like a snake stalking prey. He relished in the moment the fiery liquid hit the archangel’s virgin palate, basking in the single, unnecessary blink, followed by a small cough. 

“Good Lord...” they said hoarsely. They looked up at Crowley, who was grinning from ear to ear, and very purposefully placed their tumbler down by the bottle with a thunk. They tilted their head slightly and raised one eyebrow. In the background the Feegles were already cheering and clamouring for more drink. 

To be fair Michael held up very well, but even a celestial entity has a limit. Six-inch tall men of vaguely Scottish heritage however, did not seem to have a limit at all. Or at least, not one they had managed to find. And they had certainly tried.

“That duck. That ducking... fucking... rubber duck. Did you deliberliberately make it look like, ugh, Gabriel?” Micheal slurred. Then they giggled. Micheal had turned out to be a giggly drunk. 

Crowley hadn’t been matching them drink for drink, but he hadn’t been leaving his own glass neglected either. At some point he had removed his sunglasses.

“It DID din’t it! Face like a... a... sumfin’ that’s just stepped in, wossname, poo!” 

At that Micheal burst out into high pitch shrieking laughter and promptly fell off their chair. The Feegles cheered at their victory. Crowley walked unsteadily around the table to find the Archangel sprawled on the floor, still giggling. 

“Right!” Crowley said. 

“Left!” Micheal replied, sniggering. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Nonononono! 'S'my joke y’hear! You. You need to get up, and go... go home before... before I think of what might happen next.” He tried, brows creasing slightly. 

Michael hauled themselves upright and leaned right in to Crowley’s face. 

“Howd’ya do it then. Holyly water. Best stuff. Whole blessed bathtub. S’not fair.” They said, fixing Crowley with the most searching gaze they were able to, which at the moment meant they seemed to be searching his left ear. 

“Ah can’t tell ya that! ‘S inef... infer... infeffa... can’t be explained. Now. Off with you, Michaelel. My associates an’ I have biss'ness to attend to!” He waved another bottle that was miraculously full. 

Meanwhile, in the background, the Feegles, in the absence of a competition to distract them now, had started partaking of their other favourite activities. Having discovered they could slide the glass covering enough to gain access, they were presently arguing over the merits of swimming in the whisky river. One had indeed shed his kilt and was already floating away downstream. 

“Oop!” Crowley drawled, clicking his fingers to momentarily reverse the flow, allowing him to retrieve the now very sodden Pictsie. 

“Does all gross matter make you feel like this?” Micheal asked wistfully, chin being propped up by one arm on the table. 

“Nah, just the booze.” Crowley replied. Well it wasn't a lie, Aziraphale just reacted... differently to food. “C’mon, time to go Michael. Gabrielel’ll be missin' you!” 

“Fuck the archangel fucking Gabriel. He such a.. a... prat! Onlyly got th’job because he was first one back after’er war. SOME of us were busy fightin’!” The Feegles cheered as Michael raised their glass pointedly. “By ‘a time I go’ back swas all overr. He hasn’ got a fucking CLUE how anythin’ works. Why I oughtta go up there and tell him... him... enough! Time for someone who knows what they’re doin' to be in charge.” They pushed themselves away from where they were leaning on the table with wide eyes and stuck out a hand forcefully. A sword appeared, this one long, and looking rather familiar to Crowley. 

“Here, isn’at Excalibur?!” He said with realisation. “Ah fuck ‘m too drunk for this.” He sobered up just in time to see Michael’s sword wavering about, glowing with heavenly light. As one, the Feegles drew theirs and ignited them. Unfortunately one of them had made it back into the whisky river and the whole thing ignited with an ominous whoomph. 

“Ah.” Was all Crowley managed, as the bar’s human patrons screamed, leapt back in terror and ran for the exit. The fire alarm went haywire, and the sprinklers started. He pulled out his mobile phone and called the only person he thought might be able to sort this out, keeping one eye on the meandering holy blade. 

“Aziraphale! Yes I know it’s late. You don't sleep, why do you care it's late? Yes... yes that noise, it’s a fire alarm. No, no, I’m fine, for now, but I have a... a bit of a situation. Nope I’m at the Black Rock. Yes, look, just get here toot-sweet eh?” He slammed his phone back into his back pocket, grimacing at hearing the words he just used, and looked around nervously. The bar had emptied, the Feegle who had been swimming had been dragged out and was being furiously damped down by some of his brethren. The others were roaring incoherently along with Michael, and the mousepipe player was calmly getting the pipes back out again. So when Crowley felt Aziraphale materialise next to him he breathed a sigh of relief. 

Aziraphale studied the tableau he had been presented with. 

“Well, this is a new one, certainly.” He said. “Right. You get the Pictsies, I’ll get Michael.”

Aziraphale flicked his hand at the river of fire and it extinguished with a hiss. In its place was a river of water. 

“Ziraphale!” Micheal squealed. “I’m going to go show Gabriel what a REAL leader looks like. Wanna come? You always knew your way around a sword fight! C'mon, it'll be fun!” They bellowed over the noise of the fire alarm. 

“Maybe in the morning my dear.” Aziraphale replied calmly, filing away that almost-compliment for later. “Probably better to do it in the daylight? Now, just you come with me and we’ll get you sorted.” He took their spare hand in one of his, putting his other hand onto the small of their back and guided them gently, but firmly, to the door. They seemed to melt into the touch, all thoughts of overthrowing Gabriel gone. 

“Oooooh Aziraphale you’re so strong!” They said, dropping their sword onto the table with a clatter and twisting to place their now free hand on Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley stopped in his tracks, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles could be seen bulging under his skin. He narrowed his eyes as Micheal leaned in towards the principality, giggling again. Aziraphale avoided Crowley's gaze with the look of a sober man-shaped being with his infinite capacity for patience being tested in the way only a sloppy drunk person could. 

Crowley turned back to the Nac Mac Feegles in an attempt to squash the irrational jealousy down as he heard the sound of sirens cutting over the bar’s own alarm. 

“Oi! You lot! Put those bloody swords out! It’s time to go! Firefighters”ll be here in a minute and believe me you don’t want to be in the firing line of their hoses!”

The Pictsies, realising there was nobody behind the bar, were swarming towards it, and the cabinets of alcohol behind it, at a surprising speed given how much they had consumed relative to their body mass. 

“Ach don’ mind us laddie!” The chief shouted. “Wee’ll be alreet! S’plenty o’ time tae conclude oor business and then we ca' mak oor ain way home! Yez was o’ th’ money aboot th’ fun tae be had here though, aye! A fair wee drinkie, a fight tae th’ floor an’ a bi’ o’ pillaging to round off! Here! A token o’ oor appreciation cause we like ye, ye ken?”

Crowley looked down and a blur resolved itself in front of him to be a Feegle holding out his credit card. Crowley smirked, took the card, threw in a mock-salute and headed for the door. As he left he ran into a firefighter that was on their way in. 

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” She asked. 

“Do I look like I run a... wait, never mind.” Crowley replied as he strode off around the corner. Over at his Bentley Aziraphale was holding up a very wobbly Archangel who was stroking his velvet waistcoat. He gave Crowley a stern look as the demon sheepishly opened the door and they bundled the giggling, handsy archangel into the back seat. Settling themselves into the front, Crowley turned to Aziraphale just as Michael leaned forward from the back and draped their arms around Aziraphale's shoulders, their head nuzzling his hair. 

"So soft..." They murmured. 

“Angel, I...” Crowley tried.

“Just. Drive. Please Crowley. Bookshop. Now.” Aziraphale’s voice took on that flat quality that was reserved for particularly vexing moments, so Crowley shut his mouth and concentrated on the task in hand. And if Michael was flung back from her perch atop Aziraphale in the process of pulling away, well that was just a coincidence. 

“Guys... guys...GUYS” Came an unsteady voice from the back. “Whass... ugh whass the feelin’ in your stomach and mouth, all...all... green and, ugh, wet?” 

The sound of smacking lips had Crowley yelping in alarm, but Aziraphale was quicker and with a click of his fingers Michael was suddenly holding a large, beige bucket on their knees. 

“Wha? HRUUUUUGH!” Michael vomited, wings bursting out in surprise, filling the small space in the back with a flurry of white feathers. 

Crowley grimaced, and Aziraphale put one hand over his face as the other waved absently and the bucket was empty again. 

Finally back at the bookshop, Crowley dived into the backseat to retrieve Michael. 

“Put... put your wings away dammit! Yes! Thank you! Now, up we go, yan- er, one, two, three!” He heaved them out and upright, both staggering towards the door that Aziraphale was calmly holding open. 

Michael stumbled out of the car and landed full frontal on to Crowley, giving him no choice but to catch them. “Ooooh, a kilt! How marvellous! Just need a bit of an updraft then we’ll know just how much of an effort you’ve made eh?” They said. Crowley blushed, stammering meaningless vowels out whilst looking at Aziraphale for support, but Aziraphale had gone strangely stiff and was avoiding his eye contact. 

Eventually they made it inside where Michael was deposited on the sofa, landing with a giggle. They immediately began stroking the blanket, cooing softly. Aziraphale tutted, walked briskly over and with a simple touch sent them to sleep. 

“Hey, I didn't know that worked on them too! Don’t you think we should have got them to sober up first?” Crowley asked, still trying to work out the principality’s strange reaction. 

“It doesn't normally. And Heaven’s no. A sober archangel with the memory of what they’ve just done? No I’d much rather let them wake up later with the hangover.” He smiled sweetly. 

"You wiped their memory too?!" Crowley was impressed, but slightly disappointed.

"Why on earth would I want to do that?" And there was that innocent smile again, but Crowley knew where the twinkle of bastardry hid in his eyes. 

And so it was that several hours later, an archangel, who was totally unused to drinking or sleeping, woke up to a whole new world of sensations and promptly wished they hadn’t. They had been sleeping on the sofa so their normally immaculate attire was crumpled, and their hair had loosened and was flopping about in a most unruly fashion. They looked about as smart as they felt. 

“Ah! Michael!” Aziraphale trilled brightly. Literally. The bastard was glowing. “I wondered when you might, ha, 'Grace' us with your presence. Now I’m afraid it can’t let you stay here, shop to run and all that, so if you wouldn’t mind pootling along now, that would be marvellous.” 

Too loud. Too bright. Too... much. 

“I should strike you down where you stand.” Michael growled in response. 

“Let’s just try for standing first, shall we?” Aziraphale said, and smiled. Much too bright. 

So Michael tried to stand, but the ground couldn’t decide where it wanted to be. 

“I find breathing helps... deep breaths. And a fry-up. Perhaps coffee.” Aziraphale said a bit more gently. “Or you can purge it out, but it can be a bit messy if you waited this long.”

Michael straightened up with a wince, set their shoulders and smoothed their clothes and hair with a thought, without breaking eye contact with Aziraphale. Once done, their face hardened and they thrust their arm out to the side. Nothing. They looked at their hand in confusion and thrust again with slightly more force. 

“Oh dear, lost it have we?” Came a drawling voice from the doorway to the back room. Crowley stepped forward with his arms crossed over his chest.  “Well it wouldn’t be a good night out unless someone lost something important now, would it?” He said with a grin. 

Michael’s eyes went wide. “Ohshit” they said quietly. 

“Yep.” Crowley popped the p childishly again. “Off you fuck now wank-wings, and if we see you here again we’ll be sure to let Gabriel know just how much you 'admire' his management style.”

Crowley grinned even wider as Michael simply narrowed their eyes before vanishing with a tinkling sound. 

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other tensely for a few moment, before bursting into laughter. 

“Do you think they’ll find it?” Aziraphale asked eventually as the laughter subsided. 

“With the Nac Mac Feegle around? Not a chance.” Crowley replied lightly. “It’s probably on the Disc now, being wielded by a wizard as he fights some dragons or something. Got a new name and a life of its own!”

Aziraphale merely rolled his eyes. 

“Now, I had to skip breakfast to keep an eye on our guest, so I’m famished. What would you say to some crêpes?”

“Temptation accomplished.” Crowley responded, as they headed out, bickering about which place had the best combination of crêpes and coffee. 

Over in a demon's lair in Mayfair, a blue and red blur streamed across the floor towards the drinks cabinet, and with a soft clink an extra bottle was added to the collection. It smelled medicinal, and seemed to come with instructions for application to sheep, along with a warning about chest hair and metal spoons. 

When Crowley found it, they had one sip out of curiosity and put it firmly back in the cabinet, hoping they never had a day bad enough to require drinking _that_. 

* * *

Gabriel walked into Michael's office without knocking.

"There you are! I've been looking for you. The Evolution team have been up here looking for you, but they wouldn't tell me why. Care to explain?" He looked a bit closer at the archangel uncharacteristically slumped over their desk. "Michael?" he said, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "What is that smell?"

Michael looked up at him from where their head was resting on their arms, with narrowed bloodshot eyes. He backed out awkwardly, and hurried back to his own office in thought. Hell must have something to do with this, he thought. He picked up the phone and dialled.

"Beelzebub! Just been to see Michael. Care to explain what's going on?" He drawled down the phone. 

"THEY TOLD YOU?!" Came the explosive reply. 

"Told me what?" Gabriel questioned, but the phone on the other end was merely slammed down. 

So it was unlikely to be Hell, Gabriel thought, judging by that response, which only left one other option. But what were they playing at? Gabriel did not like unanswered questions. Heaven was his responsibility, and he would get to the bottom of this.

Even if it meant visiting that ghastly bookshop again. 

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Astronomylady for the idea of a drunk Michael!
> 
> The pub mentioned is a real place, complete with the long Whisky river table.


End file.
